


come upon a midnight clear

by deadlybride



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Bunker Era, Christmas Smut, Established Relationship, M/M, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 22:55:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21946870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: Sam sets a challenge for the festive season, and Dean is more than happy to join in.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 32
Kudos: 119





	come upon a midnight clear

**Author's Note:**

> a sorta-christmas fic; inspired by the good gentlemen of Letterkenny.

It’s not until the 4th of December when Dean’s laying on his back in their bed, panting, and Sam rolls off of him and lets out a long breath and says, "Done," that Dean starts to suspect something might be up.

They’d had a dry spell for most of the last month. They’d fought about something stupid—how to handle a hunt, a stupid should’ve-been-easy job, and them being off-kilter to each other led to a guy dying who shouldn’t have, and one of the werewolves getting away. Stupid, stupid, and they were almost over it except that Dean said something bitchy at just the right time, and then that set it all off again. Sam spent a lot of time "researching at the library"‌ after that, and Dean worked on the car and cleaned the bunker top to bottom and even worked out a few times, though he remembered pretty quick why he never did that after his ass was sore from squats and for no fun reasons. Another job came along, vampires that were hard to clear out of a tight-knit town. That hunt went better and things felt smoother, but still, even if Sam kissed him soft after saving Dean from a close call with a fang, he stayed awake in the bunker’s library when they got home and Dean went to bed alone, and it was—nothing was going to crack them, but it was a little lonely. Dean hasn’t had much occasion to feel lonely, these last few years. He’s not a fan.

When Sam did come back—yeah, that was a good night. And then the day after, that was a _very_ good morning, Dean hitched up against the kitchen island and gasping into Sam’s hair with his shorts caught around one ankle. Yesterday, Sam woke him up with two fingers in his ass and his mouth working at one nipple, long enough that when Sam pulled off and smiled good morning the air hurt on the swollen-soft flesh—and oh, they stayed in bed for a while, and Dean could hardly walk once Sam was done. No complaints.

Still:‌ "What’s today?"‌ Dean says, when he’s got more of his breath back, and Sam licks his lips and says, "The 4th, why?" and Dean narrows his eyes at the ceiling and counts backwards in his head, and then rolls onto his side and punches Sam in the arm and ignores the _ow!_ and says, "Are you fucking with me?"

Sam’s holding onto his bicep, his nose wrinkled. "What do you mean?"

It’s that aw-shucks Sammy tone. It didn’t work when Sam was lying about doing his shooting drills when he was a teenager, and it doesn’t work now. "The 4th,"‌ Dean says, exaggerated. "Four times? Seriously, are you—what, are you playing a game?" Sam shrugs, eyebrows high, and Dean rolls his eyes and pushes up on his elbow, shoving his hand into Sam’s face as he counts.

"One," he says, his extended finger nearly jabbing Sam in the cheek, "‌was this morning when you tried to suck my clit off, and two"‌ (Sam flinches back from the second finger) "was when you had me on your lap, and then three was after lunch, when you brought me the beer when I‌ was changing the oil on my baby, and four—just now, and we haven’t even had dinner yet, you horndog." He jabs Sam in the chest with the damning four fingers. "December 4th, four fucks. What is it, a spell or something? You’re supposed to ask, dumbass."

Sam grabs Dean’s hand before Dean can poke him again, and sighs. "Okay," he says. "You caught me. But it’s not a _spell_ , come on."

"What, an experiment?"‌ Dean says. Sam wrinkles his nose again, caught, and Dean yanks back, annoyed. "Dude, that’s not better!"

Sam sits up, waves his hands. "It’s not like—I’m not—" He sighs again, runs a hand through his hair. "I’m more experimenting on—me?"

Dean frowns, shifts on the bed. "Like, how?"

He watches Sam’s mouth quirk, and then Sam touches his hip. "Figures, that’s what would freak you out more," he says, quieter, and then runs his fingers along Dean’s leg to the tender back of his knee. Dean shifts again, his thighs slicking against each other, and Sam’s lips curve easily, knowing exactly what Dean’s feeling.

"Shut up," Dean says, automatically, and Sam says, "It’s a challenge."

"What, you shutting up?"

Sam pinches the back of his knee, lightly. "What I’m—this." His hand runs back down Dean’s thigh, long fingers curling around to the tender inside, and Dean bites the inside of one cheek, his engine threatening to rev up again. Sam shakes his head. "You’re going to laugh."

Dean breathes in through his nose, the smell of them heavy in the pit of his throat. "Try me."

"Dickcember,"‌ Sam says.

Dean blinks at him. "I’m sorry?"

Sam shrugs. "It’s a—well, like, have you heard of No-fap November?" Dean must make a face, because Sam rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Well, it’s just, we kind of—we sort of did that, on accident. Or—at least I‌ did." Dean shrugs at him. Whatever happens between him and the showerhead is his business, if Sam’s not putting out. Sam huffs. "Yeah, well. So, after holding it in for a while, I‌ thought, you know, we could try this."

"Dickcember,"‌ Dean says. It doesn’t sound any less stupid the more he hears it.

"Come as many times in a day as the number of that day,"‌ Sam says. He shrugs one shoulder. "We’re doing pretty good, so far."

Dean feels like his eyebrows might never come down. "Sammy,"‌ he says, and Sam half-laughs, and maybe Dean didn’t need to sound so damn admiring, but. "This is the… proudest I have ever been. Seriously. Brings a tear to my eye."

"Yeah, yeah,"‌ Sam says, but he’s got a grin peeking in at the corner of his mouth, and his dimples are all over the place, and hell, he’s naked and hot as hell and Dean came four goddamn times today, he can afford to be magnanimous. But—

"Wait a second,"‌ Dean says, "but _you_ haven’t—I‌ mean, I got there, but you—"

"I figure we can share,"‌ Sam says. "Not like there’s a judging panel or something."

"We’d get straight tens,"‌ Dean says, immediately, and Sam laughs again, leaning in. Dean accepts the kiss, soft and precise with intent, and winds his fingers into Sam’s hair. Jesus, a fuck-challenge. May his brother never cease to amaze. "Except from the Russian judge,"‌ Dean murmurs, when Sam pulls away enough that he can. "We’d probably get docked down to like an 8 or something. Fixing the competition."

"Should’ve recused himself,"‌ Sam says, seriously, the amber light in his hair, and Dean could go for number five right now, he really could.

When he reaches down, though, even if Sam’s lashes dip at the familiar grip at the base of his dick, he’s stopped. "It’s only the fourth," Sam says. He removes Dean’s hand from his lap and kisses the knuckles. Dean’s stomach goes molten hot. Sam’s such a sap. "Gotta pace ourselves."

"You think I‌ can’t make it?"‌ Dean says, laying the outrage on thick. "Buddy, you’re on."

"We’ll see," Sam says, and drops Dean’s hand in favor of thwacking his thigh. "C’mon. Shower, and then dinner. We’re going to need our strength."

He rolls off the bed, all golden tan and long muscles, comfortable and easy. Dean sucks in a long breath, and follows. This is going to be a fun month.

*

He still thinks it's fun as of the 9th, when Sam dredges up three superb erections and makes Dean come twice with each, morning, noon, and night. "Six for you, three for me," Sam says, with Dean's thighs still shuddering around his head. "Nine down."

"We kick ass," Dean mumbles, sweaty, and Sam grins at him and passes out.

By the 13th things are getting a little hairy. Sam's still game, but it turns out fucking takes a lot more time than they thought and they do actually have other things to do. It's a weird moment when Sam says that he's going to make a run to the grocery store in Lebanon and Dean says, "Wait, we need to bone first," and Sam _agrees_. 'Tis the season, Dean thinks, when Sam goes down to his knees.

Still, even if the spirit is willing the flesh may be weak. Dean's clit can get sensitive at the best of times; on the 16th, he wakes up naked and a little plumped from dreaming strange blurred things about Sam, and the touch of the sheets against his skin makes him shudder, and not entirely in a good way. Even so: "Sammy," he says, and Sam grunts next to him, but turns over, and number one that day is a ginger grind against Sam's hip with Sam's hands on his ass, Sam's mouth against his ear urging him on, sleepy at first but then, delightfully, not. Two and three come in quick succession, but Sam grimaces afterward and says, "Should've tried to hold on, we've got a bunch to do today," even while Dean's sloppy with him and too comfortable to climb off.

So, the romance is coming off of it, a little. Dean actually goes on the internet and researches foods that boost testosterone, and feeds Sam tuna often enough that he starts to kinda hate it. The 20th finds them with Sam making a schedule and giving Dean an early Christmas present: a dual vibrator/clit sleeve, and once an hour Dean settles down in his favorite armchair in the library and knocks out two orgasms, until he's sore and overstimulated and too drippy-wet to want to even put his jeans back on. Sam's good for four, that day, the last of which ends with Dean tipped over the back of the armchair with his sleeve still buzzing, practically crying into his folded arm while Sam shakes against his ass and gasps, "Twenty, oh god, turn it off, turn it off—"

Dean's not sure they're going to make it. Sam pulls off his clit, having woken him at three in the morning to ensure they hit their schedule, and says, "Baby, you need to check the calendar more often." Turns out, Sam's had a secret weapon this whole time, and on the 22nd it hits: Dean's heat, coming exactly when it's meant to like clockwork. That day he gets four off before Sam even touches him, pressed with his sensitive tits against the cold shower wall with three fingers in his ass, and when he comes back to bed he's soft and overwarm and his fingers are pruny and Sam wakes up just from the smell of him, his nostrils flaring and his dick revved and ready and the way he says _Dean_ makes the slick leak down the inside of Dean's thigh. On Sam's knot they hit four more before breakfast, and Sam doesn't even need to work for it. "I think I'm getting dehydrated," Dean says, his head light as air. Sam rubs the base of his clit where it's still standing proud and smiles at him, a smug tilt to it. "I'll get you water," he says, and flexes his hips up, "when you give me one more."

Dean shudders, clenching around Sam's fatter dick, and leans into it. "This was a stupid idea," he says, but he leans down anyway and lets Sam play with him.

On the 30th it's snowing, hard, and they don't really get out of bed. Sam's sore, and Dean's sorer, but it's hard not to keep touching each other. One lamp on, and they've got a twelve-pack of beer on the table, and a pitcher of water, and they're riding a fuck-drunk tipsy wave that's enough that when Sam has to piss he lets Dean convince him to just go right in the sink.

"You're nasty," Dean says, from the bed. The sound's ridiculously loud on the porcelain. "Gross. Why do I deal with you."

"This was your idea!" Sam says, over his shoulder, and Dean grins at him, stretching out. God, his hamstrings. The vibrator's somewhere by his feet, sloppy with lube and his own slick, and there's all sorts of nasty on his thighs, and they really might need to just burn the bedding. Who cares. This is the best month ever.

He tells Sam so, when Sam gets back into bed, and Sam shrugs, leaning over him on one elbow. "I don't know," he says, and fills Dean with three fingers like it's just punctuation in the conversation. Dean gulps air, spreads his thighs. "There was that month when I was—seventeen? And we had that rental house in Colorado and we went hiking a bunch. That was fun."

His fingers grind up into Dean's sweet spot, swollen and oversensitive. "The idea," Dean starts, pushing into it, "that this even begins to compare to that is—is downright offensive, Sammy."

Sam starts up slow circles, his thumb dragging against the base of Dean's clit. "I mean, I did get a lot of mosquito bites, that's true," he says, and Dean grips his shoulder, laughs. Sam grins at him. "Come on, give it up."

Dean does, fast, rippling. His thighs clench around Sam's wrist, his heart hammers in the pit of his chest. "God," he says, when it's over, but it doesn't really feel over, and it's not—they've got… he doesn't even know how many still to go. Sam will. He's probably got a checklist in the bedside table. Dean laughs again, slinging his arm over his eyes. "This is so dumb."

"Yeah," Sam says, and he sounds happy. "Hey. Hey, Dean."

Dean sighs, unclenches his thighs to let Sam's wrist go. "What, Sammy."

A touch to his cheek, and he uncovers his face to see Sam just looking at him—not smiling, really, but Dean knows that face and Sam sure as shit ain't sad. "I think we're going to make it to thirty-one," Sam says.

He says it with this voice that—Sam's said a few things to him, like that, and just like always Dean feels like his heart might just burst with it. Dean catches Sam's hand, kisses the pad of his thumb. "Yeah," he says, and doesn't mind how damn sappy it sounds back. Sam's a bad influence. "Yeah, I think we will, too."


End file.
